I Will Be Your August Honeymoon
by wowsugarpuss
Summary: Fluffy, smushy futurefic. Sequel to You Are My June Wedding.


He doesn't like it when she leaves – shifting away from him slowly and pulling her crumpled clothes on quickly. Grimacing into his pillow his hand searches out the spot on the mattress that's still warm with her. She leans back into him fully clothed and on her knees – but it's not the same – and whispers against his lips that she'll be back – clean and freshly clothed with coffee.

He would much rather just have her now – dirty, crumpled and un-caffeinated.

He grins into her palm – snapping at it lightly with his teeth. She giggles and tries to fight him off but he pulls her closer and she lets him slow her down.

Lying next to him her fingers curl around his spine a little, tracing over scars she knows are there but doesn't talk about anymore. He smiles up at her incredulously, an insistent grip trying to coax her back down into the sheets. Under the sheets.

He presses his mouth to hers firmly, tongue prying her lips apart. Daring her to stay. But she pulls her mouth back – smiling – and darts forward to catch his lips one last time before rolling off the bed and disappearing to her own room.

*

Breakfast is a social event for them – for everyone they know. Tired faces gathering together for fruit and bagels and crisp, cool cereal served with lazy conversation. They touch constantly while they eat – fingers brush over a knuckle, an arm around a shoulder, hands rest on the table next to each other.

She throws a piece of cinnamon bagel at him when he isn't paying attention – and the look she gets back is almost enough to make her cry, giggles erupting from her lungs. When she sees the maple syrup in his hands – and the sideways glance he throws their friends – she is quick to jump up. He narrowly misses her with a lunge forward, but as he backs her up into a corner she doesn't really have any escape.

He holds the bottle ominously above her head and she pulls him closer by his belt loops – plunging her tongue into his mouth. The syrup is swiftly forgotten, held close beside her head.

A wolf whistle from across the room breaks them apart and she winks at him, popping the bottle in her bag – he wipes away the slight stain left on her cheekbone and she mumbles into his mouth that she'll keep it for later. He grins wickedly and as she saunters back to the table – clean and victorious – she doesn't think that she'll stay that way for long.

*

He wants to know how the Hell he's supposed to fit "Veronica" on her – it's such a long name for such a tiny person. Instead he decides that it would be much more fitting to write his own name, brand himself onto her in sticky, liquid sugar. It's the only sort of tattoo that would suit her.

It is messy and horrifically hot as his tongue spreads the substance all around – over every part of her. She trembles beneath him as he licks it off her thighs, mouth stretching higher and higher. When his tongue tries to push inside her, her stomach shortens and her hips buck – leaving syrup on his cheeks.

He breathes her name out against her until she has to pull his hair – desperate for relief.

*

Her head rises and falls to the rhythm of his breathing, laid flat against his stomach. His fingers play with the tips of hers – hooking and dropping them one at a time as if he is counting on her. The television is used as a comfortable backdrop and they murmur about life and love and all the ideals in the world.

They play 'anywhere but here' but neither can ever think of somewhere better to be. She laughs that they are obviously not trying hard enough and he bites his lip a little not really responding at all.

In the end she just crawls up his chest, pressing kisses against his face and neck that are soft and warm – full of promise. Her thumb runs a comforting pattern against his body and he breathes heavily into her hair.

*

She loves to wear him draped around her body like he is cut on the bias – clinging in all the right places. He doesn't object to being a substitute for clothing, he likes nothing better than to be wrapped around her naked.

She pulls him up to her mouth and spends hours just kissing him. Their hands wander – but not very far. She misses being younger and kissing without question or compromise or promise. She doesn't know if he has ever kissed without intention behind his teeth.

His tongue in her mouth is as far as she wants this to go some days – although the feeling of his tongue on her stomach is not at all unfamiliar. Not at all unwelcome. When she is being decidedly chaste he gives her a challenging little smile, like he expects her to say 'no'. She finds herself saying 'yes' a lot more than she would like to admit to. He's not very pushy but he plays persuasion like a game he always wins.

*

He jokes that they should drive out to Vegas – let Elvis have the honor of marrying them. Just to piss off his Dad. He doesn't expect her to say 'yes'.

They never go to Vegas but he does buy her a ring – just because it's pretty. And she wears it when they're all alone. When they can pretend to be any variation of perfection they see fit.

She slips her hand into his and the cool band of metal around the base of her finger feels a little like a promise. He isn't scared as he fits his other hand around her face – and that in itself is a little scary.

He loves to feel how his body heats up her ring – warming the metal from the outside as she warms it from within. They never talk about getting married in serious tones – but he doesn't think it matters if they sign a piece of paper, as long as they keep treating each other just like this.

She sighs into his throat and he wants to close his eyes and breakdown.

*

She hates that when he's hurting she wants to touch him everywhere, comfort every part of him – but she's just too small. She wishes that she could envelope him in everything that is her and tell him that he will be safe there.

But she is only a tiny package of warm hands and warm words – bound up in golden skin – and that seems to be enough.

He takes her under his hands and envelopes her in everything he is and tells her he feels safe here, and she knows her whimpers say the same as his knee is pressed between her thighs. She squirms against it – desperate for a friction trip. Rough denim and a willing boyfriend do not disappoint.

*

Every now and then E! want to tell the world all about his family. In fact they want to so often that she secretly wonders if the 'E' actually stands for 'Echolls'. They phone his room and her lips curl a little every time she hears: "Hi, this is E!"

She's been Tiffany, she's been Amber, she's been Danielle and Collette. The rest of the world thinks that Logan Echolls is a slut and she's inclined to agree as he nips at her side with his teeth – dragging them down her front before he climbs over her lazily. She is a lot of different people on the phone, but with him she is only ever Veronica.

She stops answering his phone after a while – she only fuels more phone calls. If she does answer then she tells them it is a wrong number and would they please let her get back to her small house and three kids. She doesn't bother wishing that they would leave him alone because it will never, ever happen – so she just hopes that they are gentle with their candid photos and insipid articles.

There is an irony in the fact that he is studying journalism – and she does not miss it. She thinks he probably doesn't either but they don't dwell on it while his hand is lifting up her shirt.

*

He gazes up through a haze of dirty gold as her hair avalanches across his eyes, obscuring what her hands are doing with his buckle. Little by little his mouth falls apart as her fingers dip inside his jeans – and she gasps whenever he shivers.

She bites down hard on the inside of his lip when he flips them over, kissing her messily with her hair caught between his lips. She leaves red marks with her fingernails and knees, but those sorts of scars are the ones that he begs for – low and hungry between her breasts – his voice clashing gloriously against her skin.

Pavlovian response has taught her that a small hand pressed carefully over his abdomen will inspire dark eyes and a dry mouth. Lips pressed to a pulse point will give a rough grasp and a dry groan. Veronica. Veronica. Veronica. She rocks her hips up into his and he grinds down – wanting to imprint her on his mattress so that she can never leave.

*

Sometimes they wake up at four in the afternoon – partly clothed, wondering where the night went. They are wrapped up against each other – on one of their beds – and his skin is stained with her lip gloss. There is usually a half-finished bottle of expensive vodka on the floor and some plastic glasses by its side. The remnants of truth or dare may or may not be scattered across the carpet – because it's their homage to Lilly, and they like to think they're still in High School.

They don't move while hangover pounds inside their skulls – his fingers coaxing gently through her hair. She wipes a little of the lip gloss off him and he is still there when she searches for her underwear on the floor.

He puts his hands on her shoulders like he is righting her angle – deliberate and respectful – like she was squint before he touched her. She touches him back with a quiet hesitance that says she will only ever hurt him with her thighs around his hips.

They are not even twenty and she has started wearing her ring outside, like a declaration of his name. Like she would never, ever leave. Like she wants to grow-up with him.

They are not even in blossom yet – but he wants to stay the same.


End file.
